Life, Art, and Blood
by Syris Noir
Summary: Fallen writer Tobias King must create a new horror novel within six months or be dropped from his publisher and into poverty. Maybe that Sweeney Todd myth can help...
1. Deadlines

Another rejection letter. Tobias King sighed as he watched the hours on his minute grandfather replica tick by. How could it have come to this? He was a master of terror, an artist with a blood red pen; he made London Town's teenage population shake for nights on end with the simple sentences he crafted in his text. But that was over a decade ago. Youth had grown and become dated by the slashers of the silicone screen, and literacy rates amongst children were dropping like pies in a Chaplin sketch. Scaring people is a hard business, he thought to himself. You never know what'll properly pluck their heartstrings.

He took out his old phone and dialed Verona Hemmings, his publisher, to find out what had gone wrong. Their conversation went something like this:

V: Verona Hemmings, Lovett Publishing House, how may I help you?

T: It's me Verona.

V: Well, speak up. There's only one _me _in my life and she needs to be respected.

T: Honestly Verona, must we be so hostile? Or is this rejection something more than it needs to be?

V: Oh, hello Tobias.

T: Bingo.

V: Still sore because the heads rejected your newest novella?

T: No, I'm sore because I have a dark feeling that your input had something to do with it.

V: Your dark feelings haven't gotten you too far these past five years.

T: Touché.

V: Look. That doesn't matter right now. Actually, I was hoping you'd call-

T: So, you _do _miss me?

V: _Tobias_.

T: Can you blame me for trying?

V: I can blame you for breathing.

T: Verona, what are you _really _trying to say?

V: If I told you that, you'd probably cringe. But, nonetheless, Lovett's wants to offer you one last chance.

T: What do you mean "one last chance"?

V: Tobias, your past five or so spooks have been flops. We mostly published them on the basis that there was a name slapped on them.

T: Whose name?'

V: Yours.

T: Ouch, Verona.

V: We're giving you six months to make a new story for the next quarter. It has to be good, it has to be long, and it has to be romantic.

T: Romantic? Verona, are you insane?

V: Polls show that romance novels are doing better than ever this year. At least make it as a subplot or something, or maybe your hero could have a passion for-

T: Verona, do I tell you how to do your job?

V: Six months, Mr. King.

And then she hung up. Tobias sat head in his hands over his oak finished desk. Six months? Who in their right mind rushes genius? He needed to brainstorm. Most fears come from childhood psychology. What does one fear as a child? He used this formula for writing many times; his first bestseller was about a psychotic schoolteacher who would often "fail" her students. Dogs, homework, the boogeyman? No, no, no! Those ideas have all been done before.

He sighed and looked back his clock. Eight minutes to minutes to midnight. He sighed heavily as he rose from his seat. An old friend of his was visiting the city, and they arranged lunch together. Tobias would need his sleep for tomorrow.


	2. The Meeting

Tobias waited outside the Elysian Café that Monday morning, drumming his fingers impatiently. He was late, as always. But, ah, could Tobias honestly blame him? Even at school, he had never been known for punctuality. But, he always remembered that charm about his old friend; he could talk his way out of Congress. But alas, the last he remembered of his companion was sitting at a train stop ten years ago; he had lent him twenty dollars to change his life. At first, he could not see more than a looming silhouette in the blazing sin, but then he moved out of the light. "Giorgio, I was certainly not expecting this."

Giorgio Pirelli stood nearly six foot, a wavy moustache below his pointed nose with a chin to match. His suit was flamboyantly red, which made Tobias feel quite foolish as he had chosen to wear brown slacks and an oversized black t-shirt covered with paint stains, the uniform of choice for writers across Britain. They sat down at the wire frame table and began to exchange tales of success. Tobias felt Giorgio's was unnecessary, as he had just read his tale in the alumni catalogue, but, nonetheless, decided to entertain his old colleague. He was in a good mood this morning, despite last night's events, or maybe because of them. Probably was the weather.

"I took that twenty dollars you gave-a me and made an investment," he began, in his outrageously faux Italian accent. It always made Tobias laugh. "I took night classes at the community college and applied to Academia Militario. I made it in, top of my class-e! I joined de air force and just got stationed here at London for some, como se dice, R&R?"

Tobias felt Giorgio was being relatively humble today; he had regretted to mention how he made the front page in assisting in the prevention of the air-raids that might have hit London. Stupid war. But, politics was not the focus of this discussion. Pirelli seemed inspired this morning. Tobias hoped this information could be contagious. He explained the situation as the clouds started to darken overhead. That damn waitress still hadn't gotten their coffee yet. Eh, youth.

"Hmmm…" Giorgio pondered, stroking his moustache, "Well, what did you fear as a child?"

T: Tried that one. I was too brave as kid.

G: You kid me; you must have some demons in your closet. (He has dropped his accent by now, just for the record)

T: Demons in the closet? That's been done.

G: Metaphorically, Toby.

T: Don't call me Toby. Verona called me Toby.

G: Who?

T: Not important.

G: Okay then. Zombies?

T: Been done as well.

G: _Corporate_ Zombies?

T: That's redundant, my dear Giorgio.

G: Eh, maybe you need a change of pace, try a different career and use it in your books.

T: What?

G: They're doing it all the time in those documentaries now. Maybe you could use boot camp as a horror story. Heaven knows, my time spent prepping for the Sweeney Todd was downright hell.

T: What did you say?

G: I said it was a downright hell.

T: No, the part about Sweeney Todd.

G: You know the old saying, "Flying Squad, the Sweeney Todd". What's so important about it?

T: Don't you remember that old story of Sweeney Todd?

G: The barber on Fleet Street? Ugh, I can't even walk past there anymore. Not even during the daytime.

T: That's it! It's perfect!

Tobias rose from his seat at this statement, causing the waitress to drop her plates on the couple three tables over. That coffee was going to be a while. Tobias elatedly hugged his accomplice and almost kissed him, but he wasn't that happy. "Giorgio, thank you! My career is salvaged. Tell you what, I'll write you in the story. You'll be turning point in the novel, swear to whoever's up there-or not. Thanks, got to go."

Giorgio laughed, barely concealing his pearly whites. "You're going to kill me off, aren't you? I'll be your first victim, I can count on it." Tobias laughed as well, maybe something in the air was contagious. "Nope, don't worry. When my book gets published, everyone's going to remember the name Pirelli." Tobias practically skipped off, leaving his dear friend with the bill. Tobias was only partly right. People were going to remember Pirelli, but Tobias would be first and foremost in the readers' minds. For decades, professors would debate with their students to find at what point in the novel, in their opinion, it became apparent the author had begun to lose his grip on reality and turn down the bleak path of no return.


	3. Writer's Block

Tobias was set and ready to re-create the old legend of the demon barber; most of the elements had been written for him. Sweeney has to cuts throats, his victims have to be devoured in some form or another, Pirelli had to fit in somewhere, and there needed to be_ ugh_, he could barely stomach the thought, romance. The population has gone soft on me, he thought to himself. He began to patter fervently on his typewriter sample sentences to make sure the antique still worked, and that his creative juices were still flowing. He was about to begin the story when he stopped dead still. The truth was, he had no story, or plot for that matter. Sweeney kills but, _how _and _why_? Killers aren't scary unless there's a method to their madness. He needs a motive. What has he to gain by murdering innocent victims?

**You see, the most common misconception of the populous is that victims _are _innocent. That bullshit just drives me crazy.**

Tobias turned his head around his minute apartment to find the speaker. He then saw he was alone, aside from his black and white little friend Noah, who, technically, wasn't allowed in the loft anyway, nor was Tobias aware she could speak. He then realized that, with most characters he wrote, had fiery and often blatant personalities waiting to burst open. He decided this was none other than dear Sweeney. He thought out loud, almost enough to validate the character's existence.

T: Alright Sweeney, tell me your story.

S: Um, let me think. No.

T: Can I at least get a description?

S: Use your imagination lad. What do you say I am?

T: Ah, I'm seeing red. Flaming red hair.

S: Ugh, disgusting. Go with it.

T: You also happen to be quite pale.

S: Anything else?

T: Razor sharp teeth and gaunt, baggy eyes.

S: What am I, a clown?

T: Fine, just really glinty teeth.

S: Is "glinty" a word?

T: Who's the writer here?

S: Hey, my appearance?

T: Ah, well, more on that later. I need an opening.

S: You already have it.

T: What on earth are you talking about?

S: Look at your typewriter.

That's when Sweeney went totally silent. Tobias looked to find nearly five pages of prologue typed out that he knew couldn't be just on appearance. He looked and read. It was brilliant, undeniably brilliant. It was the best thing he had written in ages. He stapled his pages together and stuffed them in an envelope. He addressed it to the Lovett Publishing House and frantically stuffed it in his mail slot below. Let's see how Verona likes _that_,he thought to himself with a blended air of pride and arrogance, dimming the fine line between the two.

He thought to himself how helpful Todd had been. He typed five pages without even realizing it. He thought Todd was just another part of his imagination, right? It was all under his total and complete control. "He was just a character, not even a real corporeal person." He said this to himself many times as he ascended the stairs back to the loft.

Later that night he woke up to the sound of laughter, cold harsh and spine tingling, nowhere near his dulcet tones.

Crazy thing was, his mouth was unconsciously curved into an insane smile, his throat unfailing sore from use.


End file.
